Demons
by cordyyceps
Summary: Chloe's had a mask on for so long, she's not ready to rip it off and take a hard look in the mirror to see what she's become.


Chloe _may_ have an obsession with post it notes.

The habit started after William died. She used them to remind herself that she was sane, that she was safe, and that the only thing that could truly hurt her was herself.

Sometimes she'd write statements like " **I'm okay, I'm alive** " and leave them on sharp objects and the various antidepressant bottles that Joyce had her take.

She had always believed in signs, so why not make her own?

They were supposed to be the bandaid that kept the blood from gushing out.

And somehow now that she's older, all that's left is a scar and a habit she can't find herself breaking.

"Hey Chloe, what is this?" Max says, her tone curious.

Chloe is lying on her bed, attention on idle thoughts, before turning her head to face Max who, as always, is snooping around her room (not that she minds, she thinks the quirk is cute). "Hmm?" she says, giving herself some leverage.

It's then that she notices that Max has somehow gotten her hands on a red toolbox that hasn't seen light in years. A toolbox filled with post it notes that she just couldn't find the courage to throw out. _Fuck._

Chloe's had a mask on for so long, she's not ready to rip it off and take a hard look in the mirror to see _what_ she's become.

Still, she can't deny the way Max looks at her, like somehow after all these years of being _so_ fucking jaded, that Chloe still has the world. It makes her feel whole.

So instead she just smiles, and makes her way to where Max is sitting, plopping herself down ungracefully. "Just what the _fuck_ have you gotten yourself into this time, Mad Max?" Chloe says, bumping their knees together.

Max body jolts, surprised by Chloe's tone. "I-I'm sorry, um." It's obvious she feels bad and just as she's about to lift up her right arm to rewind, Chloe knowingly interjects.

"It's fine dude, I'm just fucking with you. Ah, give it here." she says, hands out reached.

It's just like she remembers. Chipped blood red paint speckling the surface, exposing the metal underneath. Holes adorn the box where years of rust have eaten away at the exterior. _Broken._

Chloe thinks about how many phases of herself this toolbox has seen and how long it's been since it has seen who she is _now._

Chloe tries to keep her hands steady as she lifts the top. She feels her demons quickly pour out and permeate through everything in the room, filling every nook and cranny not already taken by her own mess.

The feeling is overwhelming and she wants to hide. She wants to crawl under her covers with a handle of liquor, the drink burning words of affirmation down her throat, and her tears somehow dispelling her sorrow within. She wants Rachel to be here, to do nothing but rub the small of her back right where she found a home within Chloe. But most of all she wants William and all the things that can't be taken back.

Chloe doesn't realize that her breathing has become erratic or that her body is shaking until Max rests her on Chloe's knee. Somehow the still, warm hand lets her focus on every part of her body that is out of her control.

After a considerable amount of time and silence, her body begins to feel normal again. It's weird because a part of her expected Max to freak out at her reaction or try to stop her but she's _so fucking calm_ that it's weird, and it makes her think about how many times Max must have rewound this moment.

How destructive was she in the other rewinds? Did she just yell because she's so fucking broken that it feels like she can't separate rational thoughts from her raw emotion? Or did she just bum rush out of the room, running until the soles of her shoes wore down and her feet becomes littered with blisters?

Because she definitely feels like doing both.

She wants to be mad at Max. But she can't focus on that now.

Instead, she turns to Max, who just gives her a knowing look before stating quietly, "Chlo, we-you don't have to do this." Max's hand never leaves her knee.

Chloe knows that Max is right, that she doesn't have to deal with this now, but having the top open makes her think about _so many_ different things she's feeling.

You can't beg for the rain but be upset when it turns out it's pouring outside.

Chloe shakes her head slowly in response, "No. Um. No, It's probably better if I do." She can't go back now, so she flips the toolbox upside down, allowing a torrent of post it notes and half written letters to fall out and find a new home on the floor.

The experience of seeing everything splayed out before her makes Chloe feel exposed, and it's worse when she feels Max's eyes burn her skin, leaving more scars for her to keep. "Can you help me sort through all this shit?" Chloe coughs, trying to hide her unsteady voice, "I uh, don't know where to start."

She feels Max squeeze her knee and wants to believe there's love somewhere in the gesture, "Of course. Anything."

Her depression, anxieties, and unrelenting sadness have never been so tangible. Sorting through each note and letter allows them to take form right in front of her. Their eyes red. Voice low. Tempting.

They cling to her; feeding on the joy she feels when Max smiles, feeding on the sliver of hope she feels when she looks at her veins. They've numbed every emotion she's ever experienced for years, that just _existing_ has become a chore and a feat to overcome.

These demons have taken away everything that hasn't already abandoned her.

The post it notes kick everything in overdrive and she becomes hyper aware of what she's feeling and what she's doing. Chloe feels like Max's hand is trying to grasp her from the one place she's wanted to escape from.

For once, she graciously accepts.

—

It takes the two of them hours to sort through everything in front of them. And for the most part, Chloe pushes herself to throw away every note that makes her feel empty again; she's ready to let go.

The letters however, Chloe can't find herself ever getting rid of. They contain remnants of who her 13 year old self used to be. All signed, dated, and addressed to the one and only, Max Caulfield.

She reads over a few before feeling her gut twist. Max must sense that something is off because she turns to face Chloe, her brows furrowed in what looks like a mixture of confusion and sorrow, "Talk to me. Tell me what's going on in that brain of yours, Chloe."

Chloe knows that Max isn't asking, and she curses her for being so damn observant.

Still, she feels the question she's held so close to her heart bubble to the surface, and it's too late to stop it. "Why didn't you call?" Chloe frowns, unable to look at Max.

The question hangs in the air like dust, suspended between them—waiting for the perfect moment to stir the environment.

Chloe can feel Max fidgeting at the question, and she lifts her head to look at her. "Just be fucking honest with me, Max. _Please."_

Max sighs before she starts, Chloe can _tell_ she's nervous, "I... I was scared."

"Of what?" Chloe hisses through gritted teeth.

"Of saying all the wrong things. I didn't want to fuck it up and I moved away when you needed me most and just, there's so much I wanted to say but didn't know how to and Chloe I'm just—I'm _so_ fucking sorry." Max doesn't have the courage to face Chloe, so she just looks at the ground, fiddling with paper scraps on the floor.

Chloe can't quite grasp the anger that she held moments ago. It's weird, she _wants_ to lash out at Max, she _wants_ to blame her for everything, she _wants_ to stop caring.

But she can't. And she knows she never will.

After a week of knowing Max again, Chloe understands that pushing herself after William had died, and moving away completely must have been so fucking hard.

She wonders how many times Max must have sat by the phone, her hand inches away from dialing, before second guessing herself and letting herself live a whole new life. Max was probably suffering too.

So Chloe just sighs and turns her head to face Max, whose attention is still glued to the ground, probably because her insecurities are weighing every part of her body down. Chloe wants to be the one to break the chains. " _Hey._ " Chloe says, tone firm while grabbing Max's wrists, stopping their movement, "Look at me."

When Max looks up at Chloe, her eyes are pooled with tears threatening to overflow, "I'm just, I'm just so sorry I—"

Chloe pulls her quickly into a hug, not wanting to hear anymore, "Shut up. It's okay." Squeezing Max with everything she can muster, "You're here now. No crying."

A part of Chloe thinks that she should be the one crying, that Max should be the one holding her. But then again they're both so broken what difference does it make?

She grips Max as hard as she can while feeling the world around them turn inside out and fall away.

And that's all Chloe has ever needed.

" **I'm okay. I'm alive** " has never felt so close.

Author's Note:

Thanks as always for the read.

Feel free to send me some headcanons maybe i'll write a fic about it!

Thnakwneafkjnirensjgwjtgn


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